by V Clifford
‘Tonight she’s just claimed that MacDonald was arguing with a woman. Definitely a woman’s voice.’
‘He’s married. Apparently the wife lives in the prison houses out at Saughton. Could have been her.’
‘I’ll have her checked out. Anything else you haven’t told me?’
‘Oh, no doubt, but whatever I’ve got you’re welcome to it. If I think of anything I’ll ring you.’
‘You’ve said that before.’
‘But . . .’
No point in speaking to a retreating back. Viv turns and heads out into the cold.
Chapter Sixteen
It’s great to see the relief on John’s face when she tells him that Sandy is now in safe hands, although it disappears at the mention of his being unconscious.
‘No point in worrying over something that you’ve got no control over.’ Rich, coming from someone who once wondered if she could market worry. She continues, ‘Besides, Marconi will keep us informed.’ Hearing the lack of conviction in her voice she shrugs. ‘Not much we can do tonight. Let’s eat, then get some shut-eye.’
‘There were a couple of calls. Only one left a message. Sounded like a very posh hair client confirming his appointment. I let the machine take it.’
‘I’ll deal with it in the morning.’
He rescues the chicken and they eat in silence before they head to their beds.
Viv is restless, thinking about why Sandy’s wife would turn up at the flat and what they might have argued about. It could have been anything from the electricity bill to divorce, and it’s unlikely that she’ll ever find out. She’s assuming it was his wife, but there are other women in the world. Too soon to make such leaps. Better to sleep on it, but sleep isn’t on the horizon. Seduced by a new copy of McDermid’s Trick of the Dark sitting on her bedside cabinet, she bolsters the pillows, anticipating a literary feast.
Later, waking from a dream where she was being chased by Marconi through some kind of collegiate setting, legs of lead as usual, unable to cover ground, she panics, wondering how loud a dream scream is, and lies panting, waiting to hear movement from the sitting room. Nothing.
Monday morning. Her diary is clear but she checks the message from last night. She smiles when she hears the voice of Lord Kinardoch, Teddy to her. A High Court judge, who rings to confirm his appointments because there have been times when his court has been sitting in another county and he’s forgotten to let her know. To give him his due he has been mortified and paid her for double sessions so there was no great hardship for her. He’s definitely going to be in Edinburgh next week. He’s great company and, ironically for someone in his profession, an avid reader of crime fiction – for years now they’ve exchanged books. She doesn’t need to ring him back but, determined to address the car issue today, she lists everything else that she has to do. First Marconi, then perhaps Max. No, not Max, he’ll be dealing with the family fall-out after yesterday’s exposure. As she pours Gold Top milk onto her cereal John appears at the kitchen door, stretching to reveal an impressive Jacob’s ladder.
She raises her eyebrows and he says, ‘Sorry. I obviously feel too relaxed with you already. D’you sleep okay?’
‘Not a chance. But I made great inroads with a new book. You a reader?’
‘Yes. Started a Hollingworth yesterday. Bit slow, good cure for insomnia, but I’ll persevere since he’s one of us.’
The phone rings and Viv goes into the sitting room to retrieve the handset. It’s Sal Chapman. ‘Hi. I thought it might be Marconi.’
‘No. Just me. Marconi is at the hospital questioning Mr MacDonald.’
‘Good, that’s a relief.’ Putting her hand over the mouthpiece she says to John, ‘I think Sandy’s okay.’
Sal has heard what she said, ‘I’m not sure how “okay”, Viv, but conscious. Mac – Marconi decided it was worth trying to question him. I’m phoning to say we have a description of a woman leaving the flat last night and it wasn’t Mrs MacDonald. This woman was tall, blonde and skinny as a rake apparently. Marconi thought you might know her.’
Before she’s had time to think it through, Viv says, ‘It could be Mrs Whiteman. But what could she want with Sandy? . . . Maybe she was looking for Robbie and got Sandy instead?’
‘So that description fits Mrs Whiteman, then?’
‘Yes, and a thousand other anorexics in Edinburgh. But not all of them know the flat.’
Viv, hearing how guarded she sounds, makes an effort to lighten her tone. ‘How are you anyway? I suppose Marconi has filled you in on the last couple of days. Barely a dull moment.’
‘I’m fine, thanks. I wondered whether you’d mind if a friend of mine came round to look at the cooker and measure up for pipes and things.’
The thought of disruption in her haven fills Viv with dread and she hesitates. ‘Well. I’m actually on holiday this week and had planned to be away. I’ve also got someone staying who isn’t too well.’
Sal interrupts her list of excuses. ‘That’s okay, maybe you can let me know when it would be convenient.’
‘The flat is actually perfect for me. You don’t need to go to the bother of upgrading. Not on my behalf. Couldn’t you leave it until I move out, and the next tenant comes in?’
‘Oh! Are you planning to leave?’
‘No. No. I was speaking about the future. I’m not going anywhere . . .’
Her words aren’t coming out right and John is standing in the doorway making faces.
‘Sal, would you mind if we speak later, I’m in the middle . . .’
‘Sure. They’ve brought Maxwell Scott in again. I expect Mac, I mean Marconi will ring you later.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
Viv throws a pillow from the couch at John’s head. Then when she sees him ducking and landing awkwardly on the couch she exclaims, ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry. I forgot. I forgot. Are you okay?’
He smiles up at her from his foetal position and says, ‘I’m not feeling nearly as bad as I was. You sounded as if you were digging a hole. Who was it?’
‘My landlady.’
His eyebrows meet, confusion all over his face.
‘Sal Chapman is my landlady, but she also happens to work with DI Marconi. Incestuous, I know. I don’t think she’s officially on this case, but she seems to know what’s going on. Come to think of it I’m still not sure why Marconi is on this case either. He’s supposed to be heading up the new NTF, Northern Task Force, for those who don’t know. Actually I didn’t know myself until he told me last week. When my car was blown up he became involved, and I suppose he’s sticking with it. Let’s get some coffee before I die of caffeine deprivation.’
Viv rings the DVLA and explains to a monosyllabic moron that the bits of her MG are going to be in police custody for the foreseeable future. Eventually, the moron agrees to send her the forms for a refund on her road tax. The next task is to find a car. She fleetingly thinks of Dawn’s little VW sitting in a lock-up off Broughton Street, but still can’t face going there. The fact that she’ll eventually have to sort out Dawn’s estate is like having a piece of grit in her sock.
The Yellow Pages, with endless adverts for car outlets all over Edinburgh, proves too daunting, and she decides it would be wiser to check out e-bay. It’s extraordinary that with a few taps on the keys, a selection of cars all within ten miles of her postcode comes to life. Knowing that she’ll probably never have another sports car, and that the time for careless purchases has passed, she spots an old Toyota for sale in Corstorphine. It says ‘Top condition, one lady owner’. Maybe. But it’s not far and worth a look.
The sky looks much the same as yesterday: dark grey and heavy with the promise of another good dunking. The notion of lying under a car looking for rust or worse fills her with dread, but needs must. She emails the owner to find out if she can have a look at it this morning. As she waits for a reply she uses the time to tidy her desk. Beneath the piles of bank correspondence, insurance statements and junk mail, she comes ac
ross a letter from Dawn’s solicitor asking her to make an appointment at her earliest convenience. The letter is dated almost a year ago. On impulse, she picks up the phone and asks to speak to Mr McGrath. Before she knows it, she’s made an arrangement to see him, four-thirty p.m. today.
Her belly reacts immediately, making necessary an emergency visit to the loo. On her return the car owner has replied and yes she can see it this morning, if she can make it at ten-thirty. She glances at the clock and still has time to ring Marconi and find out what’s happening with Sandy. Only his answering service responds to her call. Viv drums her fingers on the desk and stares out of the window at the gloomy sky: a deceptively busy space with all those unseen air lanes, radio waves and wifi of one sort or another.
Her thoughts are interrupted by John’s voice. ‘Hey, where have you gone? You’re on another planet.’
‘I wish. I’ve got stuff to do today that I hadn’t anticipated. Feels awkward.’
‘Don’t do it then.’
This is the voice of a different generation where responsibilities haven’t yet built up.
‘I’ve already put it off for almost a year. The time is now.’ The sooner it’s done the better. Reminding herself that it’ll be over by five o’clock, she wraps up warm, then says goodbye to John.
Corstorphine is easy to get to; almost every bus from Shandwick Place runs through it. Caroline Gardens was named after Queen Caroline, but bears no relation to anything regal or stately – the houses have only been there since the nineteen thirties and the best thing about them is their view. They face to the south and west of Edinburgh with a 180-degree panorama of the Pentland Hills, which probably makes it worth living in one of them.
She rings the bell, taking in the manicured planting on both sides of the drive. There isn’t much that’ll show its face at this time of year, but the display of snowdrops here would make anyone optimistic.
A small man opens the door, with a smaller woman right behind him. Viv nods and gestures back to the snowdrops. ‘Lovely to see something growing. I’m here about the car.’
They stand awkwardly on the doorstep for a moment, until the woman gives her husband a little nudge, and he says, ‘Come on in and I’ll get the key to the garage.’ The house is as immaculate as the garden and more tasteful than she’d expected. ‘Come away through this way and I’ll show you the car.’
‘I don’t remember what the mileage was on the advert.’
‘Oh. Did I not say? Silly me. It’s got twenty-four thousand on the clock.’
If this is the one lady owner, maybe Viv was being too sceptical about the advert.
The woman says, ‘I’m selling it because I’ve retired and we only really need one car now.’
The garage is massive and contains two shiny silver Rav 4s, one behind the other. Viv feels like a child in a sweetie shop. You really could eat your dinner off the floor in here, and both cars are in showroom condition. The man’s hands are shaking and Viv wonders if he still drives. She ventures, ‘Goodness me, they both look great. Which one is it?’
‘The three-door. We’ll hang onto the bigger one; need it for the hillwalkers.’
Surprised by this, Viv pays more attention. Both of them look pretty fit. Neither of them carries any extra weight and their skin is weather-beaten. That’ll teach her for making assumptions. Viv walks round the car, pretending she knows what she’s doing, then sits inside. He hands her the key. ‘Switch her on. You’ll not get a better drive. It’s smooth and more economical than the five-door.’
Viv isn’t getting the arithmetic: she can only see two doors but is embarrassed to ask. She can also see how proud he is; the way he runs his hands gently over the bonnet, then takes out his handkerchief and rubs at a tiny fleck. Viv raises her eyebrows and the woman notices. ‘They’re his pride and joy. We can’t justify having them both when one or other is always in here.’
‘Would you mind if I had an AA check? I don’t know a lot about cars and . . .’
‘We’ve had one done, I’ll get it.’
Viv tries to imagine herself nipping confidently around Edinburgh in a car that actually works. She could definitely get used to the idea. But this is too pristine, and her car is her office, not to mention her dining room. Then there’s the parking. She certainly wouldn’t be bumping this out of a parking space. It’s too good for her – but then she checks her attitude – she deserves a proper car. The little man hands her a report. It is dated the previous Friday, and unless they’ve been rallying or off-roading with it over the weekend it’s in mint condition. Tentatively, Viv says, ‘I’d like to drive it if that’s okay.’
‘We’ll get our coats and shoes on.’
When they come back it’s no surprise to Viv that they are wearing matching Goretex jackets and woollen hats.
He manoeuvres it out onto the road and then lets Viv take over. It is gorgeous. She knows within fifty yards that she’s going to have it, but she gets as far as South Gyle before she says so. As they return to Caroline Terrace Viv tries to think of ways to negotiate with them on the price but once back inside the house she’s too embarrassed to barter, so says she’ll ring and organise a banker’s draft. They shake on it, and she almost skips back down to the main road. It’s the first time she’s had anything this grown-up, but telling herself that it’ll last a lifetime helps ease her conscience.
As she turns the corner at the bottom of Clermiston Road she sprints to catch a 26 bus just pulling away from the lights. Thankfully an elderly couple at the bus stop struggle to board and in the end, huffing and puffing, she has plenty of time. Fumbling about in her bag for change she budges over on the step of the bus to let someone else on. They’re even more out of breath than she is. Once she’s seated she pulls out her mobile and flicks it open, but is suddenly aware that the person behind is too close to her ear for comfort. It’s barely a whisper, but it’s definitely a threat. ‘You’ve had your fun, Fraser. Now it’s my turn.’
Viv tries to turn, to see if she’s correct in her identification, but there’s something sharp like a nail touching her neck and the whisperer says, ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. I bought this little baby for filing crystal.’
The sickly smell of musk leaves Viv in no doubt about who it is. Zoe Whiteman is obviously a woman of habit.
Still whispering Mrs W says, ‘You ruined that dress. A Sonia Rykel. But that’s not all you’re trying to ruin. Is it?’
‘What are you on? I was doing my job.’
‘Don’t give me that. You’re an interfering cow. Can’t leave things alone. I bet you’re a curtain twitcher. How many warnings does a girl need? Notes, telephone calls, fire-bombs and you didn’t even listen to Sandy. Which bit of “back off” did you fail to grasp?’
The bus is getting busier and Mrs Whiteman has to make a decision.
‘At the next stop you and I will take a walk. Don’t even try to run. This little implement could prove fatal.’
This woman is being so ridiculous Viv can hardly believe it’s happening – although the tiny pricking sensation next to her carotid artery certainly keeps her attention. She hasn’t yet set eyes on her assailant and feels a giggle rising, but manages to hold back. They leave the bus at Roseburn, and Whiteman, slightly taller, prods Viv in the direction of Wester Coates. Once they round the corner off the main road she pushes Viv towards the old railway line.
Viv used to run along this line and is familiar with the time it takes to get from here to Stockbridge, providing the dog walkers don’t have their beloveds on extending leashes. Spinning round, Viv hits out with her elbow high and knocks Whiteman off balance, then sprints away from a torrent of abuse towards the Water of Leith walkway. It’s almost midday and there isn’t a soul about. She glances back to see that Whiteman wasn’t off balance for long, and looking lithe in head to toe black lycra, including a tight fitting hat that covers her hair completely, she is making up on her. About a quarter of a mile on there’s a bend in the path. Viv vaults over
the fence onto the river-bank, and stands flat against the wall. Grateful that the river isn’t in spate and there aren’t any nettles at this time of year, she prays that her heavy breathing won’t give her away. Footsteps race by and she immediately climbs back onto the path and scrambles up the steep embankment on the other side. This is a tricky operation, as mud and leaf-mould keep shifting beneath her feet. She manages to dig her toes in but not before a lengthy slide back downhill. She retraces her slither, grasping at a low branch of a tree. Once her foot is jammed in behind the trunk she pushes herself up towards another fence, which runs along the crest of the banking protecting some private gardens. Finally she reaches out and grips the iron railings.
While she’s getting her breath back she hears voices below and spots a couple of elderly female dog walkers chatting. They lean over the fence, looking into the water. One of the dogs starts sniffing about on the slope, moving in her direction, but to her relief it returns when its owner calls it to heel. Now Viv takes the opportunity to look around and get her bearings, but can’t work out if she’s on Ainslie or Moray Place. She squints, trying to identify her exact position from the buildings, which she knows, on the other side of the river. If she’s correct she’s on Moray Place and will be able to follow this fence along to Doune Terrace. She’s edging her way along when she spots Mrs W with her hands on her hips panting and walking back and forth on the path below. A screen of gnarled elder trees should be enough cover but taking no chances Viv hunkers down and grips the railing even tighter. The elders do the trick and Mrs W trots back up the river in the direction they had come. Viv remains still. But her eye catches a movement two gardens further on. The sight of a black spaniel makes her grin, and she continues with enthusiasm along the fence. Unable to believe her luck she calls, ‘Beetle, come on boy.’ And sure enough the dog trots up to the fence and licks her hand. Moray Place. Thank God.
With less agility than she’d like, she levers herself over the fence, hearing her jacket tear as it catches the spike on the top of the railings. Once she’s in the garden the dog jumps up and down barking, and within minutes Carol, one of Viv’s hair girls, comes to the kitchen window. Viv waves and smiles as Carol opens the door and shakes her head at the mess that Viv is in. ‘What . . .?’
